Town Crier

When a woman has a child she expects that certain physical and emotional changes will happen as a result. Expanding waistlines and tighter wallets. A new subdivision of spider veins on the road map of her thighs. Breasts to rival those of the saline queens in the pages of men's magazines, which almost inevitably deflate as if an invisible hat pin was used to pop a hole to let some of the liquid drain out. Sleepless nights resulting in a matched set of luggage that doesn't come from Louis Vuitton. The strong Mama Bear emerges but the overtired woman inside begs for mercy - and a couple of minutes alone. Please. Just a couple of minutes.

All of these things happened to me and I was (almost) ready for them. Bring it on. Just make sure I get that cute, wiggly bundle of need as my recompense. I was not, however, ready for one small change in myself.

I became a crier.

A big, weeping bag of tears.

Anyone who knows me well could tell you that I don't cry. Ever. For some, crying comes naturally, it actually makes them feel better. Some even make it look good. But I am not one of those people. Scratch that. I was not one of those people because, apparently, now I am. Although, I still don't look good doing it. I think that when the doctor administered my epidural he must have went in too deep and punctured a tear duct. That's the only way that I can explain it. Yeah, I know what you're going to say - Hormones, blah, blah, blah. If that's the case then these hormones are vindictive sons of bitches because they get me when I'm not looking.

I expected to get a little teary when I saw my baby for the first time after giving birth. I expected to cry when, at 3am, she wouldn't sleep for the 10th night in a row. But I did not expect that when singing "You Are My Sunshine" to my two-day old daughter that I would break down in great racking sobs when I got to "...You'll never know, dear, how much I love you..."

And you can forget about the second verse.

I expected to be deeply touched when watching the evening news and catching another tragic story of a young child who had died. I did not expect that watching two of the last few episodes of Grey's Anatomy would send me into a crying jag. Or any fictional show involving a mother or a child (or, heaven help me, a baby) who is dying.

And I never imagined that the simple act of my 12 month old child giving my husband a big hug, complete with patting of the arms, and a big open-mouthed kiss would move me to tears.

I blame my daughter for turning this once stoic, self-controlled pragmatist into a weepy, blubbering mess of a woman.

And I thank her for it.